


A Study In Silence

by argyle4eva



Series: Beyond Words [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock's relationship, such as it is, has always been a study in silence.  Can be taken as a prologue to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/111032">"Action Man."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through the backlog of drafts and fic fragments I have built up, and ran across this little bit of writing that spent a long time as part of an intended longer fic that never properly jelled. Rereading, I found myself liking it more than I'd remembered and decided to do a light polish and post it as a standalone. Self-beta-ed. Warnings for mild angst, verbiage, semicolons and ellipses.

John and Sherlock's relationship, such as it is, has always been a study in silence. It started almost subliminally, with small things: Sherlock spending more time in John's personal space than was strictly necessary; a brush of hands that didn't need to happen; the way that, when they share the sofa for reading or working on laptops or watching crap telly, Sherlock edges just a bit closer to John every time.

It was disconcerting to John, who had a fair idea of what such things would mean with anyone else. What they meant with _Sherlock_ \-- married-to-his-work, not-really-my-area, self-diagnosed-sociopath Sherlock -- was beyond him. But, regardless of his enigmatic flatmate's intentions, in the privacy of his own head John couldn't deny he craved those little moments; he treasured them, squirreled them away in memory and sometimes conjured them up to turn over and over in his head at night, when he was alone.

There was no way in hell he was going to say anything that might make those moments stop happening.

They happened more and more frequently, getting less and less easy to pass off as chance or accident, and still John said nothing . . . but neither did he recoil. He began to have the tiny, breathless suspicion that his limits were being _tested_ , tentatively and systematically, though he was careful to keep the accompanying hope tightly reined-in.

It was almost like watching a man carefully edging close to a skittish (possibly dangerous) wild thing, careful not to scare it off; at the same time it was also like a man keeping still, and letting a wary creature approach on its own time and terms. John couldn't be sure if he was hunter or hunted in this game, and couldn't be bothered to care. The only thing that mattered was the ever-closing gap between them.

Then there was the night Sherlock sat so close to John on the sofa that their knees brushed. They didn't look at each other, only at the brainless crap telly that happened to be playing, and neither of them said a word. Every silent touch jolted John's body like an electric shock, but he held still as stone: careful, so very, very careful; so very, very _close_ . . .

And then, a few nights later, John was once again sitting on the sofa and watching . . . something, he never remembered what, afterward. He wasn't actually thinking of the odd, sneaking game he and Sherlock had been playing (he didn't think about it continually, since otherwise he'd never think about anything else), his brain was just bumping comfortably along in everyday tracks. He had one arm resting along the back of the sofa for no particular reason other than it was comfortable. It wasn't an invitation, there was no intent on his part, but it was the final opening Sherlock needed.

John heard his flatmate approaching, but didn't think anything of it. They did live together, after all. Then Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa and in an instant John couldn't think of anything else. He was so close to John their hips bumped, the warm line of Sherlock's thigh pressing along John's, Sherlock's narrow shoulders entirely within the span of John's outstretched arm.

It was difficult to breathe; John's stomach muscles went rigid, freezing his diaphragm in place. For a moment he was frozen, torn between terror and agonizing want. _If I'm wrong, if I'm misreading this somehow . . ._ he thought, but couldn't help himself. Feeling like he was fourteen again, without looking, he slowly let his arm slide forward to lie along Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock didn't move.

The tautness in John's muscles began to generate deep, involuntary shudders as the cautious, captive hope he'd been nursing struggled to break free. Feeling as if it was the single most daring, death-defying thing he'd ever done, John let his hand curl to cup the slightly-bony point of Sherlock's far shoulder, exerting the barest pressure. It was the moment of decision, the final toss of the dice: there was no way to deny the gesture for anything but what it was.

And Sherlock responded to the pressure of John's tentative embrace by giving way, finally leaning the full length of his body against John, and then, astonishingly, resting his head against John's shoulder so that wisps of dark, fine hair brushed John's cheek.

Hope transformed into joy in one incandescent second and John closed his eyes as great, silent skyrockets of emotion screamed and exploded though his head and chest. He let out a long, shaky breath, exhaling the greater part of his body's tension at the same time. Sherlock couldn't possibly miss his response, and John felt a contraction of Sherlock's shoulders, a faint huff of amusement . . . but at the same time Sherlock relaxed, too. John hadn't realized how tense the other man had been until he felt lean muscle uncoiling against him.

It was wonderful, impossible, magical . . . John turned his head and nuzzled gently into Sherlock's unruly hair, which was soft and tickly against his face and smelled absolutely wonderful, the scent going straight to the warm animal part of John's brain. Sherlock shifted so his breath ghosted along the bare skin of John's throat, sending a delighted shiver through John, which turned into a low gasp as soft lips ran along the same skin a moment later.

Later on there would be other breaths (and gasps) as the evening ran its course, inevitable as the world turning and water running downhill, but out of all the moments through all the years to follow, the one that burned brightest and best in John's memory was the first time he realized that, sometimes, silence speaks the deepest truths of all.


End file.
